


You Can Sharpen Your Knife

by WyrmLivvy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dissection, Gore, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-10 12:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12299247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyrmLivvy/pseuds/WyrmLivvy
Summary: Tom should have been hungry and ravenous, but in the pit of his stomach he had not felt hunger for food. He supposed Harry had removed his need for sustenance as easily as he had taken away the basilisk’s deadly gaze, and Tom’s ability to die.Time-traveling Master of Death!Harry AU





	You Can Sharpen Your Knife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feriswheel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feriswheel/gifts).



> Posting early but a birthday gift for phoenixrisingdusk, who prompted: "frozen hearts and minds of blood and tears with a serving of starlight". I tried but the prompt ended up rather scattered.
> 
> **Content warnings: graphic torture, blood/loss, gore, violence, gruesome body injuries, unhealthy interactions, cigarette burns**
> 
> This fic was inspired in part by the Laura Moon from Starz’s American Gods adaption.

Tom waited in the Forbidden Forest, in a part of it where the usual thick and plenty branches of trees did not block out the sky above, and through an opening, the night and its starlight could be seen. There wasn’t a sliver of moon in sight and Tom preferred these new moon nights, when there was no moonlight to compete with the stars. He pretended he was the one picking the time and place, and the person in control, instead of the Master he was waiting for. Harry would appear in Hogwarts once a month, and only to Tom alone.

Tom was skilled at guarding himself, having practiced it all his life, from birth. At the start of their lives, other people had something called “parents” or “family” but since he had started with none around him, he watched his own back. But Tom couldn’t keep it up forever. Even he needed an occasional break, and then he would be vulnerable. 

He was already on his knees. If he didn’t start that way he would be by the end, but at least this way he could pretend that it was deliberate, waiting on the ground as if to insult his visitor without the proper greeting a handshake or greeting while standing would have constituted. 

Harry appeared shortly, his manifestation warping the scenery to such a degree that in Tom’s eyes Harry appeared to have emerged from the inside of a tree. Time, space, death - the usual rules of those things, even by magical standards, were mere suggestions to him rather than any stringent laws he was bound to, and one day Tom would be the same, but for now he wanted to at least be as close to someone like that as possible. 

“Good evening.” Harry said, and Tom thought he made for a rather poor imitation of a vampire, not having the foreign accent, dark clothing, or pale skin. 

“Good evening,” Tom replied, his hands clasped over his bent knees. 

“How was your day, Tom?” Harry said, like they were pals and not whatever their arrangement was. 

If Tom was one for telling the truth he would say it had been shit. He regretted taking Study of Ancient Runes. A recent assignment had been to turn in a family tree with relationships translated to and written in the target runic language currently being studied. It had taken him considerable effort and charm to convince the professor into allowing him to turn in an alternative assignment that still functioned to show his understanding and mastery of the written language, and to hide the fact of Tom not completing the same assignment as the other students from them.

The professor had been successfully bribed, because Tom had presented a breakthrough piece about the runes related to academic research the teacher was being funded to do, implying that the teacher could take all the credit for it as long as Tom was allowed to quietly avoid the original assignment. Tom had read all of the emotions felt by his instructor. Impressed by Tom, but also envious of his talent, glee at being able to claim credit for something Tom could not in his disadvantaged position, and a taint of pity - awareness of why Tom couldn’t complete the assignment as readily as his classmates. 

Tom didn’t answer the question Harry had asked him. “What are we learning today, Professor?” Tom asked instead, addressing Harry as such though Harry didn’t look more than a year or two older than him at most, a teenager too, and was casually dressed in a sweater and blue jeans like the first time they had met in the Chamber of Secrets. 

Harry doesn’t appear annoyed or perturbed, instead he produced from thin air a very familiar set of items Tom had searched for hours ago.

“These are flirting with death,” Harry said, holding out a carton of cigarettes and bottle of wine, “Nicotine and alcohol are bad for you.” His voice was that of a disappointed lecturer, destroying the effect of Tom’s mockery by playing along. 

People took whatever poison they could to cope with stress. They consumed drugs, drank alcohol or ate chocolate. Tom mostly smoked, and had started before he was a teen. He planned to live forever so he disregarded the impact of the numerous cigarettes. Each one - single digits, didn’t effect the infinite.

Tom had thought to have a drink and a smoke or two or three after his Study of Ancient Runes class but when he searched he had found the items missing. He had wondered if a nosy housemate had stolen his things - both were muggle brands, but as it turned out, Harry had already visited his room, when Tom had not been present, to steal the goods. 

Tom anticipated being taught the lesson Harry was surely about to deliver. He’s not disappointed. 

Harry dropped to his level. The cigarettes and wine are left floating in the air. 

There’s many layers to Tom’s school uniform but Harry’s fingers undo all of the buttons and push aside all of the folds. He’s familiar with it, going faster than he had the first time. Harry never stripped Tom using magic, though he owned a wand, made of elderwood and uniquely shaped, with circular bumps along its form, whereas most wands had none. 

Harry tossed Tom’s clothes to the side, onto the forest ground, showing little care about the dirt, grass and twigs that would surely end up on the fabrics. 

Tom still had his trousers but his chest was bare. This was familiar. 

Harry stood up after he completed his work, to observe Tom. 

Then Harry produced in his hand the lighter Tom normally used to light his cigarettes with instead of a spell. Tom had stolen the silver object years ago from a man who had visited the orphanage to look into adopting a child with his wife. It had been all talk and no real interest, for the man had been trying to patch his ailing relationship with his spouse, and rather poorly, by pretending to consider raising a child with her. But an adoption could not have patched the gaping holes between the couple, one of which was the man’s habit. 

Harry used the lighter with the obvious experience of someone who has never used one before. 

Tom doesn’t comment. He simply observed, feeling the cold night air settle onto his exposed skin. 

When Harry finally succeeded in lighting a cigarette, he doesn’t put it to his lips, or to Tom’s. 

“I’ve never smoked and I’m not going to start now,” Harry declared before he unceremoniously pressed the lit cigarette into Tom’s shoulder. 

Tom had been expecting it but his mouth still opened, though no sound came out. 

Many more followed, Harry lit the cigarettes one by one, barely using each one before the next, wasting Tom’s supply. 

Tom’s flesh was being seared, branded, and disfigured with each burn Harry was inflicting on his skin. He was certain that if his body were left to heal on its own, the appearance of many circular scars would remain, long after the pain had passed. Harry would mend him afterward though, but Tom hoped he would be able to keep a few if he asked. He'd be allowed to, as long as he had been well-behaved by Harry's standards, and Tom knew he had been, because lately the basilisk hadn't attacked anything but rats.

Harry had his wand and sometimes, after he’s applied a cigarette to Tom’s skin, he doesn’t follow up with using the wand to cast a spell to mend, and nor does he use a spell to exacerbate, but used the physical wand for that, pressing the tip of the wand to the fresh burn, poking Tom with the magic tool as if it were a simple stick and not anything capable of more. 

To mix things up, Harry pressed his index finger to a new injury instead and said what was probably the first thing to come to mind, “Hot.” And while Harry had said that, Tom’s thought had been “cold,” because while the cigarette had seared, Harry’s touch had been like being stabbed by an icicle. Tom was well aware Harry was incapable of producing his own heat and it was leeched from Tom every time Harry touched him. Once Tom had spent an entire night with Harry before, just sleeping as the larger spoon to Harry’s small, and he had woken up having skin with a visible blue tinge. 

Besides the wand, or his fingers, Harry’s also pressed the black stone of his ring to a created burn. The stone was cool, but not as cool as Harry’s skin. There’s plenty of ashes discoloring Tom’s otherwise pale skin and sometimes Harry brushed the it off by hand, or he blew gently. His breath’s chilly and effective and the ashes float away, sometimes transforming into little crystals, like miniature stars that have fallen from the dark sky above them. It contrasted with the initially intense blistering pain of each cigarette. 

Harry’s tired of Tom’s chest because he started to apply cigarettes to the collarbone instead, and the way he arranged and created several burns in an arc had Tom thinking that Harry was trying to draw a necklace onto his skin. 

Somehow, under the starlight, the pain was stronger, keener. 

Yet this paled compared to what Harry had done to him the first time. 

~~~

Before Harry had done anything to Tom directly, he had left Tom in the Chamber of Secrets for several days, and Tom should have been hungry and ravenous, but in the pit of his stomach he had not felt hunger for food. He supposed Harry had removed his need for sustenance as easily as he had taken away the basilisk’s deadly gaze, and Tom’s ability to die. 

When Harry returned, his presence had filled the entire chamber - a feat considering the boy looked like he had at least two more years of being a teenager, and though tall, he was also thin and wiry. 

Tom noticed two more things about Harry. One was his knife and the second was his expression. 

He looked like a person fresh off experiencing many losses, and he stared at Tom with hunger. He wanted something. He was looking for something from Tom, and Tom wasn’t sure if he had what Harry was looking for, but if he did, Tom decided he would hide it, or remove it, so that Harry would not be able to acquire it - whatever it was that he wanted from him. 

No sooner had Tom thought that, Harry had began taking away Tom’s robes. As to why, the question was answered shortly. 

Once Tom’s chest was fully exposed, Harry had taken the knife and cut a “Y” on it, a diagonal cut from both his shoulders that connected with and went straight down the middle of his chest.

Even before Harry announced it, Tom was aware he was being dissected. Tom made sounds - they weren’t even words but grunts and restrained screams. He became aware of how much fluid there was within him, when it was flowing out, sloppy and wet. 

Tom’s trousers had soaked up much of his blood already, there was no more capacity and the rest was dripping off the cloth and onto the cold ground. He could not control the reactions of his eyes. Tears flowed from the physical pain he was experiencing. 

As Harry worked, he spoke. It was a lecture about morality and not killing innocent girls just because of their blood status or something. He said other things, about how Tom shouldn’t take lives for his own gain. Shortly before his first meeting with Harry, Tom had failed at killing Myrtle. 

Harry was knelt over Tom, and his blue jeans were red with blood - all Tom’s, which had soaked into the denim from the floor. 

Then Harry was cradling him, one arm under his back and the other under his knees, as if Tom were a infant. Harry was showing the care for such, his hand patting Tom’s back in soothing movements. Harry used a corner of his supernaturally clean cloak to dab at the tears that were trailing down Tom’s cheeks. 

Harry’s hand was empty, but not for long. He rammed it into Tom’s chest and without warning or gentleness, he tore out the heart.

Tom could hear the sound of his bones cracking from the trauma they were enduring, feel the muscles attached to them be torn, and blood flowing out and into places it shouldn’t be. 

His heart was still beating though it was no longer pushing around the blood that was currently leaking from the veins of Tom’s body, which had ruptured from the removal of that key organ. 

This wasn’t the normal reaction to blood loss, or heart loss. He’s lost too much blood and should have been in shock by now and showing stronger symptoms, but he remained aware of the pain instead of numbing. He should be _dead_ , yet he was not. Tom was certain Harry had enchanted his body, otherwise he would have thrashed more - Harry had opened his flesh with relative ease. 

Strangely, though it was disconnected from his body, Tom could feel the sensation of his heart freezing in Harry’s palm. 

Tom wondered what he had done to warrant this treatment. Yes, he’s harmed the kids at the orphanage, and housemates too, but they had harassed him first, and then they learned not to. He didn’t think it would mean he’d deserve being dissected alive. Maybe if he had killed Myrtle, but Harry had utterly seized control of the basilisk. Tom hadn’t murdered anyone. Yet. 

“You have a heart.” Harry said, most surprised about that fact regarding Tom. He said some other things, about how terrible of any enemy Tom was and how Tom would have no problem murdering anyone - man, woman, or child. 

Tom’s throat was raw from screaming but he could still hiss. He said something silken and furious, curses in Parseltongue.

“ _It’ss ssshaped like a mango_.” Harry hissed back, sounding upset. 

“And?” Tom asked, barely a whisper. He wondered what was so wrong about his heart being what Harry was describing it as. 

“I like mangoes.” Harry answered. There’s an unspoken, “And I don’t like you,” Tom’s tormentor disliking that Tom’s heart was associated with something he was fond of. 

“What are you doing?” Tom said, because he saw and felt the boy _kiss_ his heart.

There’s proof after the fact, with the blood smeared on Harry’s lips. 

“It doesn’t taste like one.” Harry said, before he placed the heart on Tom’s removed robe.

Tom did not know what Harry sought to gain from the desecration of his flesh, beyond the taste of it. Tom doubted anything good could be acquired from the consumption of his body. Unicorn blood extended and cursed life both. And once, he had read a tale about demons seeking to eat a holy man, the act of which would grant the eater immortality. But Tom was not holy - rather the opposite. There was nothing of goodness or value to gain. 

But Harry doesn’t consume his heart.

He goes after the other organs in Tom’s chest next. None of those get as close to Harry’s mouth and he simply commented, sounding surprised that Tom was an ordinary person and had the parts most people did. 

Harry had alot of grievances, people he’s lost that Tom was supposedly responsible for killing, and spoke names Tom didn’t recognize. Harry said, with the evil Tom’s done, he’s surprised the Slytherin had a regular heart and not one that was two sizes too small. Tom hardly paid attention because he was focused more on the sensations he was experiencing. 

There was not much to examine in the stomach and Harry had made a little displeased sound when he had examined Tom’s lungs and thinking about it now, Tom realized then Harry had seen the evidence of his nicotine habit.

Several of his organs were outside of his body and he was not dead. This was magic. Magic was Tom’s first and only love (at that time). It was astonishing and wonderful. It made him special. 

Tom tried to the name the emotion he was experiencing above all else and realized it was _relief_. 

Dissection was a secret fear that Tom would have never admitted to because it involved being terrified of a bunch of muggles. He was magical but he had also been a kid at one point, small and relatively powerless in a world he shared with peers and adults, weak even with his magic because they had their numbers and cliques or wealth and authority. He had feared he would be captured and taken away to be dissected. They would tear him open in the search for his secrets, the source of his magic. He was told before, that was what would happen to freaks like him. Tom always knew he was extraordinary and with his powers came fear and wonder. What if ordinary, boring people wanted to break him apart for his abilities? And there was also Tom’s own curiosity. What was it about his body that allowed him to do what he could - speak to serpents and move items without direct touch? 

Harry was opening Tom in the way he had once been afraid of, a phobia developed over a decade ago. The old childhood fear was one that was being resurfaced now, only to be obliterated completely because Tom had experienced it for himself. And Harry had no idea what he had done for Tom. 

There were mysteries solved and no longer unknowns to fear. Harry had cut him open. The Master of Death had pushed aside his skin, reached into ribs and pried out his heart. Death touched his blood, his bones, his muscle, his skin. 

“Thank you,” Tom said, while he was half-naked and covered in his own blood, with several of his rib bones displaced while the boy who had declared himself Tom’s enemy was holding his liver. 

“What?” Harry said, and Tom wasn’t sure if the boy had heard him because his voice was that weakened. 

“Thanks,” Tom tried again, putting energy into that one word. 

Harry’s expression was parts disturbed, upset, and infuriated, “I didn’t do you a _favor_ ,” he snapped. 

“ _Yesss you did_ ,” Tom replied. 

“I’m putting everything back,” Harry said, as if that would undo what he had already done for Tom. It wouldn’t - Tom would remember. 

Harry meticulously moved everything back to the places it had been before, adjusting things by hand before by wand. He returned the heart last. 

Tom didn’t think it would work. He thought about the stickers he had stolen as a child, from other children, but had never used. One reason he did not enjoy his prizes openly was in case someone would notice. But a stronger one was that he had few possessions and used stickers would lose their stickiness, and couldn't be moved, once placed. He did not like how it was irrevocable, even after he figured it was not such after all, and he could modify an item’s properties with his magic. Tom felt like his organs were used stickers being applied back to the sheet it had come from and Harry was being successful at it. 

The bones of his ribs had been realigned perfectly, as were his parted muscles and opened skin - his body a present that was being re-wrapped after having been opened. Harry patted down his skin, and stitched together the separated pieces with a wave of his wand. Tom had been the one opened but he felt like he had received something too - a priceless experience. 

There’s a strange mismatch in temperature initially, when Harry’s cold hands placed back the frozen organs but that settled too once Tom’s body was closed and Harry muttered something that made the lost heat and lost fluids return to his insides. 

The blood and tears Tom had shed were still everywhere though, on the floor, over his clothing and skin, and Harry’s. 

Tom felt clean. 

~~~

Since then, Tom was aware he did not belong wholly to himself, but in part belonged to Harry. He was to Harry what the basilisk had been to him. He’s fed and tended to with the special diet of pain Harry provided. In return, Tom followed, and appeared when commanded. No one else could give the care Harry did. Harry didn’t pity him either, the way other people might. _Poor Tom, so strong and smart, but an orphan without parents._ Instead, Harry had said, “my parents are dead too,” and then he had looked at Tom like it was his fault.

Even when Harry wasn’t around Tom was reminded of him. Every time his heart beat in his chest, Tom would remember where it had been, whose hand had held it. 

Harry hadn’t forgotten about the wine. He poured a line of it down Tom’s arm before he brushed a newly lit cigarette across the surface. Tom sensed the flames before he sighted it.

It danced for a few seconds before being extinguished with a touch of Harry’s hand, the heat replaced swiftly by cold, the sensations both startling. 

Throughout all this, Harry had been moralizing on tobacco and alcohol usage. Both pretended Tom was listening but that wasn’t what he was here for. 

Tom doesn’t have on his personable student mask. Underneath, he’s not anything at all. His housemates had their pedigrees and lineages they could trace back for centuries or even for millennium. They had their family names while his was a mystery, it was _Riddle_. There was a hollow within him and Tom would like to fill it with power, the kind people feared, followed, or fought, and if it was the last, he’d fight back and he’d win. He’d conquer. But right now he was still a student. 

Tom often pretended, but with Harry he didn’t have to feign being a decent, upright person when Harry had said he knew what Tom was really like, and Harry acted the part too, treating Tom in a way that acknowledged for deeds he had not yet committed. Or already had, by Harry’s eyes. It’s a relief, not having to assume his usual disguise. 

And because he’s a greedy bastard, when Harry knelt to question him, Tom rests his chin on Harry’s shoulder and hissed into his ear, “ _More_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not sorry about the sticker stuff or the mango line or the other weirdness. I’ve pretty much accepted that because it’s me, even when I truly try to write dark fic, strange humor creeps in. Anyway, that was my attempt at writing a ~submissive, masochistic~ Tom Riddle >.>


End file.
